


A Family Trait

by EbonyKnight



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Developing Relationship, Friendship, M/M, Vampires
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-27
Updated: 2017-07-27
Packaged: 2018-12-07 19:21:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,134
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11630217
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EbonyKnight/pseuds/EbonyKnight
Summary: Having found Sherlock in a bit of a state, Greg makes a discovery that has huge ramifications.He certainly isn't complaining though, not when it leads to a change he has been wanting for a long time.Caution: here be vampires!





	A Family Trait

**Author's Note:**

  * For [CindyLouWho](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CindyLouWho/gifts).



> Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock. Probably a good job, all things considered.
> 
> This came about because I was bored and reading Dracula at the same time as working on another Sherlock fic in my head. Thank you to RomanyWalker for her excellent beta skills.
> 
> Dedicated to CindyLouWho, because she is fabulous.
> 
> Feedback is always given a loving home.

Arriving at 221b Baker Street with a squeal of tyres, Greg turned the blue lights off and jumped out of the car. He let himself in the front door and took the stairs two at a time, eyes and ears alert for any sign of danger; not only had there been three days of radio silence from Sherlock, but barely twenty minutes ago he’d received a rather frantic phone call from a _very_ distressed Mrs Hudson, begging him to ‘do something!’ Exactly what she needed him to do something about hadn’t been entirely clear, but he _had_ managed to surmise that the racket from the first floor was drawing attention from the neighbours, and that Sherlock was, by the sound of it, strangling a glaring of cats.

The flat door, however, remained stubbornly closed, even after Greg had unlocked it and given it a good shove. After two more attempts at getting the damned thing open, he really put his back – well, shoulder – into it, and was rewarded with the distinctive sound of furniture being forced across a wooden floor, and a large enough opening for him to squeeze through.

After ten years of knowing Sherlock, Greg had been certain - absolutely _certain_ \- that nothing could surprise him. He’d been wrong. The door had been obstructed by John’s chair, which was on its side, looking like it had lost an argument with a lawnmower. The rest of the room really hadn’t fared much better; the table which was usually pressed into service as a desk was on its top and missing a leg, wrecked books, papers, and science equipment were scattered hither and yon, and one of the kitchen doors was hanging on by a single hinge.

“Sherlock!” Greg shouted urgently, only to be answered by a resounding silence. It was obvious that the fight had moved on from the living room, so Greg quickly followed its trail of destruction through the kitchen and down the hall. Both the bathroom and bedroom doors were ajar, but there was an impressive dent in the plaster of the wall next to the bathroom. Quickly deciding that the bathroom was the most promising candidate, despite the lack of any sound at all to act as a guide, Greg cautiously opened the door.

It took several painfully protracted moments for his brain to process what he was seeing, and when it did, a brief, hysterical laugh escaped him. “Sherlock, what the _fuck_?” Greg demanded, eyes compulsively flicking between the dead body in the bathtub and Sherlock, who was slumped against the toilet, messy haired and his mouth, cheeks, and white shirt covered with blood, wearing an expression of utter bliss.

Laboriously, Sherlock lifted his face enough that Greg could see his eyes clearly; his pupils were blown wide, and there was a curious red glint in them, leaving him looking like something straight out of a horror film. “L’strade? What’re you doing in my k’chen?” As he spoke, his incisors, which Greg had never had occasion to pay any mind, were suddenly jumping out like neon signs: not only were they abnormally long, protruding well past the edge of his top lip, but they were _pointy_.

“No. _No_ … this isn’t possible!” Moving away to put his back against the wall, Greg clamped down on his rising panic and attempted to force his brain to accept what his eyes were seeing. A corpse in the bath, puncture wounds on its neck, and Sherlock sitting there covered in blood. “You’re a vampire,” he muttered disbelievingly, heart pounding and horrified, yet unable to look away from Sherlock’s mouth. “You’re a fucking _vampire_.”

“An exc'll’nt d’duction,” came the waspish, if somewhat slurred, response. “Now, p’ss off.”

Had it not been for the overwhelming evidence that there was something very peculiar going on, Greg would have sworn blind that Sherlock was high. Not a sight he ever wanted to see, for it meant that he had failed his friend, but he was more than familiar enough with the signs to recognise them. The wanton destruction of property was nothing new when he’d been using, and nor were the slurred speech or surliness, but the blood and body in the bathtub were definitely original. Doing his best to focus on the situation at hand, no matter how seemingly impossible, Greg really looked at the body; it was a white male, approximately thirty five, and built like a brick shithouse. The angle at which his neck was bent allowed a very clear view of the puncture wounds over the artery, and the marks on what was visible of his body told their own story about how the living room had got into such a state. How Sherlock had managed to best him without receiving so much as a scratch – ignoring the blood around his mouth, of course, for it was obvious where _that_ had come from – Greg was sure he’d never know.

“Didn’t you hear me?” Sherlock demanded sulkily, drawing Greg away from his contemplation of the body. “I said p’ss off.”

“Shut up, Sherlock,” Greg replied absently, looking around the bathroom with something akin to panic. Mrs Hudson knew that _something_ had gone off up here, and it wouldn’t be long before she came investigating. _’She can’t find **this** ,’_ he thought wildly, eyes flicking between a very messy Sherlock and the stiff in the bath. The state of the living room could be explained away as Sherlock being in a mood, but not so much the rest of it. Shutting down the encroaching hysteria in favour of dealing with the situation at hand, Greg started running the sink’s hot tap and pulled the shower curtain closed; it did nothing to change the fact that there was a dead man – the victim of a thirsty _vampire_ , no less – behind it, but at least he didn’t have to see him.

When the water was running hot, he pulled a stack of towels and flannels from the cupboard and set about cleaning Sherlock up. As with many things that were for his own benefit, Sherlock resisted, but he was far too lethargic and…well, spaced out, to mount an effective defence. Using wet, soapy flannels, Greg wiped around Sherlock’s mouth and cheeks like he had when his sister’s kids had got into the chocolate, doing his best to remove the smeared blood without thinking to closely about it. When done, he threw the used cloths into the corner of the room, where they landed with a wet ‘thwack’ and, over the younger man’s scathing protests, started work on his shirt buttons. “Stop it,” Greg snapped, smacking down Sherlock’s hands when they started getting in the way. “Do you _want_ Mrs Hudson finding you like this?”

Dropping his hands with a dramatic huff, Sherlock sagged, boneless. “You’re str’pping the wrong brother, Gary,” he sneered with a respectable attempt at injecting his words with their customary bite.

“Shut up, or I’ll film this and put it on Facebook,” Greg threatened, pushing the blood-stained shirt down pale shoulders. The younger man knew full bloody well that his brother was a sore spot for Greg, and he usually knew better than to go near the subject. With more force than was strictly necessary, he scrubbed the blood off Sherlock’s neck, ignoring his snarled invective, and absently noted that his fangs had retracted. Thankfully the mess only extended a little past his collarbones, and efficient application of a soapy flannel soon had that taken care of. Once done, Greg crouched to be on eye level and tilted his Sherlock’s face up. “Are you going to let me get you to bed, or do you fancy sleeping next to the loo?”

Blinking blearily, Sherlock shook his head. “Leave me alone,” he slurred, and Greg felt a definite pang; were it not for the fact that he’d just cleaned _blood_ \- and he knew the meltdown about that couldn’t be held back much longer - rather than puke and piss off him, the situation was far too similar to the times he’d found Sherlock passed out after a drug binge. 

“Alright,” Greg replied, and stood from his crouch. The bathroom was far too cold for him to feel comfortable leaving Sherlock uncovered, so he went into the bedroom and pulled the quilt from the bed. In the short time that took, the younger man had fallen asleep, chin resting on his chest and messy fringe hanging in front of his eyes. He’d regret sleeping with his neck at that angle come morning, Greg knew, but there was little he could do about it. He gently pulled him forward by the shoulder and wrapped the quilt around him as best he could.

Back out in the living room the, surrounded by the detritus of the struggle that had left a man dead at the fangs of a vampire, reality hit home; not only were vampires real, but Sherlock was one. Sherlock Holmes, a man he’d known for ten years, was a vampire. A vampire who had killed someone less than an hour ago, in fact. He shut that line of thought down, but not before it had led to vague wonderings about how many more were stalking the streets. The thought that one could jump out from a shadowy alley way, or follow you into a public toilet was enough to set his heart racing. Fortunately, before his brain could turn itself inside out with fear of the unknown, the silence with split by the opening bars of Bohemian Rhapsody.

Greg worked his phone out of his pocket with a trembling hand and felt a rush of relief at seeing ‘Mycroft Holmes (personal)’ on the screen; if anyone would know what to do, it would be him.

“There is a car for you outside, and a team is on its way; there is no need for you to concern yourself with anything else,” Mycroft said, a distinctly harried quality to his voice. “I’m leaving Downing Street now and will be with you shortly.”

The line went dead before Greg could respond, but he knew better than to argue. He stuck his head into the bathroom and checked on Sherlock, finding him spark out against the loo and emitting little whistling snores. He didn’t know what the team Mycroft had sent would do, but assumed that they would deal with the state of the flat and, hopefully, get Sherlock into bed.

Mrs Hudson must have heard him leave the flat, for by the time he was halfway down the stairs she had dashed out to meet him at the bottom. “What on earth was the racket about?” she asked fretfully. “I tried to get in before I rang you, of course, but he wouldn’t let me.”

“He’s fine,” Greg said, doing his best to sound reassuring. “Just a bit of an incident with a client. I spoke to his brother and he’s sending some of his people over to deal with it.”

“Oh, well, that’s a relief.” Shoulders visibly relaxing as the tension left her, Mrs Hudson smiled. “Mycroft’s a good boy, really, under all that pomp. Have you got time for a cup of tea? I made ginger cake earlier; I know how fond you are of it.”

With a smile Greg shook his head. “No time now, but I’ll be popping in to see him after work tomorrow. Maybe then?”

“Alright, dear. You’re looking tired; make sure you get an early night. Such long hours at your age must be taking their toll.”

Fighting the urge to roll his eyes, Greg squeezed Mrs Hudson’s purple clad shoulder and left. As promised, one of Mycroft’s fancy cars was idling outside the building, and as he approached the driver climbed out to open his door. “Good evening, Detective Inspector. Mr Holmes thought you might need this,” Lou, one of Mycroft's regular drivers, greeted, holding out a can of pre-mixed Jack Daniels and Coke.

He took the can with a huffed laugh. “It must be bad if he’s letting me drink in his car.”

Smiling, Lou opened the door and gestured at him to get in. “Your car has been returned to Scotland Yard and Mr Holmes will be meeting you at his house.”

“Right, thanks,” Greg replied, ducking inside. Before the car had even pulled away from the kerb he had the can open and raised to his lips; after the experiences of the last half an hour, the drink was very welcome, even if he could have done without the Coke. Turning the can in his hands, he absently watched London pass by, but his mind was back at Baker Street where there was a _vampire_ \- apparently in a food coma - sleeping against his toilet. He was no Sherlock Holmes, but Greg liked to think that he was a rational man, more than capable of assessing evidence and getting to the right conclusion. This time, however, he just couldn’t get his head around it; vampires and ghosts and werewolves existed in books and TV shows and films, not in London. But, if there was no such thing as a vampire, if they didn't exist, what the hell had happened in Sherlock’s flat? Why had Mycroft been aware of the situation? Why had he arranged for Greg to be collected and a team to be sent in?

It was as he was cycling through these questions, which had no obvious answer but ‘Sherlock is a vampire and Mycroft knows it’, that one arose which had Greg’s heart stuttering in his chest: was Mycroft a vampire too? “No,” he said to himself, staring blankly at the privacy window. _“No.”_

Though he had known Sherlock for longer, it was the elder Holmes brother that he’d spent the most time with, and in recent years a substantial chunk of that time had been spent in bed. Since the earliest days of their acquaintance they had dined together at least twice a month; Sherlock had been the only real topic of conversation for several months, but before the year had been out their meetings had a definite social feel about them, too. Following Greg’s divorce, though, their relationship had morphed into what Mycroft called ‘a mutually beneficial arrangement’, and what Greg called ‘friends with benefits’. “I’d have noticed if I was shagging a vampire,” he told himself, playing with the now-empty can and choosing to ignore that he’d apparently been working with one for ten years without noticing.

The car pulled up outside Mycroft’s ridiculously posh house, bringing Greg’s somewhat rambling thoughts to a close. Lou opened the door, and as soon as Greg had had climbed out gestured for him to hand over the can. “He was right, then?”

“Of course he was; when is he ever wrong?”

Lou smiled and inclined her head. “Good night, Detective Inspector.”

“You know, you can call me Greg,” he said. Between how much time he spent at work where he was ‘Lestrade’ all day long, and his almost total lack of a social life, hearing his name was becoming quite the rarity.

“Good night, Greg,” Lou replied as she ducked into the car. “Mr Holmes should be with you soon.”

He watched the car disappear into the night and turned to face the house. With only vague ideas what to expect from the coming conversation, he started up the path and was unsurprised when front door was opened for him before he’d even raised his hand to the bell. “Good evening,” Jonathon, Mycroft’s housekeeper, greeted warmly, holding out a hand for Greg’s coat. “You’ll be dining in the smaller dining room. Go ahead and help yourself to a drink.”

“Thanks,” Greg replied, shrugging out of his coat. “Do you think he’ll mind if I make it a large one?”

With a wink, Jonathon disappeared through the door to the left with Greg’s coat, leaving him free to wander in the direction of the dining room. Despite the creepy portraits on the walls, the familiarity of the house was welcome after such a strange evening, and Greg felt some of the tension bleeding out of him. Yes, his world had been turned on its head - again - but he’d survived that in the past; from learning that Santa Claus was a fiction parents used for blackmail to finding out that he couldn’t have children to discovering his wife’s multiple infidelities, Greg’s worldview had taken a battering on a fairly regular basis since early childhood. It would take effort, he knew, but refusing to accept the latest in the line was not an option. 

The dining room - not the one with the ridiculous giant chess pieces surrounding the table, thankfully - was dimly lit, and the relatively modest table had been set for two. This much Greg noticed, but, as focussed as he was on getting at Mycroft’s good scotch, he completely failed to notice the man himself standing by the window.

“Good evening, Greg,” Mycroft said pleasantly, and Greg startled, hand millimetres away from the decanter. “Don’t let me stop you; I understand that it has been something of a trying afternoon.”

Glancing over his shoulder, Greg got a good look at the other man. Though he was perfectly groomed and his suit bore not a single crease, the stress was definitely showing. “You want one, too?”

“Thank you, yes.” Behind him, Greg heard Mycroft settle at the table. “Dinner should be here shortly.”

“Great.” Greg poured their drinks and replaced the decanter, a sense of unreality setting in. Here he was, in Mycroft’s dining room and about to have dinner like it was a perfectly normal evening. But it _wasn’t_ a perfectly normal evening, and he very much doubted that the coming conversation would be perfectly normal, either.

“I believe that you have become aware of Sherlock’s nature,” Mycroft said conversationally as Greg crossed the room to the dining table.

Setting their drinks down with unsteady hands, Greg breathed heavily through his nose in an attempt to ground himself. “You could say that, yeah.” He sat down and immediately reached for his glass when panic started rearing its ugly head. “Fuck knows what happened, but the flat looked like a bomb had gone off and I found your brother covered in blood, and a corpse in his bath; I’m no genius, but the puncture wounds on the bloke’s neck and Sherlock’s fangs were a bit of a clue.”

Mycroft’s smile was sharp. “Yes, I’m sure they were. You were correct in the conclusions you drew about Sherlock; vampirism is a family trait, though I’m sure that you understand why secrecy has been necessary until now. Indeed, you would have been kept ignorant of it indefinitely had it not been for Sherlock’s poor decision making and impulse control issues.” Greg nodded, stunned despite having been expecting a disclosure of the sort, and Mycroft settled back in his chair, fingers laced over his abdomen. “I do wish my brother would take more care over where and on what he dines; there are several respectable establishments which cater to our particular dietary requirements in London, yet he chooses to abduct a drug dealer – in front of a CCTV camera, no less – and feed in his bathroom.”

“Right. Family trait. The both of you,” Greg said, numb. He knocked the rest of his drink back, got up, crossed to the sideboard, and returned with the decanter. “How? I mean, all the stuff in books and films—”

“—Really, Greg,” Mycroft interrupted, visibly irritated. “Bram Stoker was a novelist, not a biologist.”

Greg flushed, a mix of embarrassment and annoyance colouring his cheeks hotly. “Well, that the fuck am I meant to think?” he demanded, and necked another measure of scotch. “Vampires, Mycroft! Fucking vampires! This can’t actually be happening!”

Jonathon chose that moment to knock and enter the dining room carrying two large bags from Reigate Square, Mycroft’s favoured takeaway, and Greg sagged into the chair, cradling his scotch. “This just arrived, Mr Holmes. If there’s nothing else, I’ll be off for the day.”

“Thank you, Jonathon,” Mycroft said, standing to take the bags. “Enjoy your evening.” As soon as the door closed behind the housekeeper, the younger man placed the bags on the table and Greg felt the full weight of his attention returning. “This can actually be happening, I assure you. I would, however, ask that you direct questions on this subject to me rather than turning to popular culture; as enjoyable as Lugosi’s Dracula was, it is hardly an accurate representation.”

Watching as Mycroft unpacked the cartons, Greg thought hard. None of this made any sense, but it was obviously real, which left only one question: “ _How?_ How can this be real?”

Having removed the last lid, Mycroft back into his seat with a contemplative expression. “Vampirism is the result of a genetic mutation. As is the case with most of these things, the gene is passed down from the parents, though there have been rare cases of it manifesting with no known family precedent. Activation of recessive genes, presumably. Sherlock is the scientist; ask him if you have a burning desire to understand the ins and outs.” He reached for the chicken chow mein. “Please, help yourself.”

“Why was Sherlock out of it like he was high? Is that normal after you’ve…you know?” Greg eyed the pork balls and tub of sweet and sour sauce, but thought better of it; something about the idea of the red sauce dripping from the balls was off putting after what he’d found in Sherlock’s bathroom, so he opted for the satay chicken.

“We refer to it as ‘feeding’,” Mycroft replied blandly, the rolling of his yes audible. “And no, that reaction to consuming blood is not by any stretch of the imagination ‘normal’. Sherlock, as you know, has a predilection for cocaine, and his victim was a particularly amoral drug dealer with a fondness for sampling his own wares. We don’t usually drain our donors, but the extreme hunger resulting from his ridiculous insistence on not eating when working and the cocaine in his meal’s blood proved too much for him to resist. I usually step in before he becomes so hungry, of course, but have been somewhat distracted of late.”

Letting that sink in, Greg absently chased a piece of chicken with his chopsticks. “So how do you normally do it?”

Mycroft finished a prawn cracker and fastidiously wiped his fingers on a napkin. “There are several establishments that cater to our community’s needs. The Criterion is one such place, though I favour the Diogenes Club; the artwork in the dining room is wonderful, and the donors appreciate the value of silence. My brother, of course, insists that adrenaline adds something to the flavour and prefers a meal that bites back, as it were.”

A snort escaped before Greg could hold it back, and Mycroft smiled. “Of course he does.” He contemplated his next choice for a moment, and eventually settled on the crispy duck. “You said you don’t usually, ah, drain people; will Sherlock be in bother for today?”

“No. The Council maintains a list of those society would benefit from no longer carrying. Providing that the person killed is selected from the list, there will be no serious repercussions. Perhaps a reprimand for acting in front of a live CCTV camera, but these things can be dealt with.”

“Let me guess,” Greg said after swallowing his mouthful, “you chair this council.”

Having long maintained a mental index of Mycroft’s facial expressions, Greg immediately recognised his ‘I eat world leaders for breakfast’ smirk. “Naturally. We’re charged with ensuring the community’s secrecy, keeping order, and maintaining and building links with other nations. Who else would I trust with such a job? Of course there are some days I would gladly relinquish control; I can't tell you how much trouble Brexit is causing with our European neighbours.”

“Yeah, your brother’s not the only one who makes fucking stupid decisions. At least he’s normally got the excuse of being high when he does, though.”

“Quite. If only it was possible to legislate against electoral stupidity,” Mycroft replied wistfully, and speared a pork ball with a chopstick. “You’re taking this remarkably well, Greg.”

“Not really a whole lot of choice, is there? Not accepting it won’t make it go away.” The spring rolls were divine, and Greg made quick work of two of them before wiping his hands and reaching for the decanter. “So all the stuff in the films is bullshit, yeah? I mean, we’ve had plenty of sex and you wouldn’t be able to get hard without a pulse, so that one’s obvious.”

Greg felt the heated glance Mycroft directed at him to his core. “Yes, it is rather. As for the other ‘stuff’, a vast majority of it is nonsense. Our life expectancy is usually longer than average - unless met with an unfortunate accident, of course - but we are certainly not immortal. Nor are we able to ‘turn’ people; research has been conducted into the possibility of it in the past, but Sherlock is adamant that it isn’t possible. Passing on a condition such as Down’s syndrome through the exchange of bodily fluids is not possible, so why would this be? I won’t insult your intelligence with crucifixes, reflections, bats, or garlic. We can be killed by a stake to the heart, though I defy you to find me a being that can’t.”

Allowing a long moment for that to soak in, Greg took a sip of his scotch, enjoying the burn as it went down. “Where do you keep your coffin, then? I’m a bit disappointed not to have been invited in yet,” he said with a wink, and to his delight Mycroft actually laughed.

Smiling against the rim of his glass, the younger man replied, “My bed is infinitely more comfortable.”

“It is a pretty special bed.”

A companionable silence settled over the table as they continued with their dinner, and Greg took the opportunity to turn the day’s revelations over in his head. Had someone told him that morning that vampires were walking the earth, he’d have laughed. However, having seen evidence of it with his own eyes, he found that it didn’t bother him. Not really, beyond the shock. No harm had come to him at the hands of vampires in his fifty three years, and he had no reason to think that would change now that he was aware of their existence. It raised a lot of questions, of course, but Mycroft had been very forthcoming, and Greg doubted that he would cease to be so when more arose.

Greg looked across the table and found Mycroft relaxed in his seat, swirling scotch around his glass, and felt a flutter in his chest. Had this been a normal evening together, it would be about this time that Greg started putting the moves on him, or the younger man suggested adjourning to bed. Thinking about how their nights in normally progressed raised questions in his mind – again – about why Mycroft was so against them officially being in a relationship. It was hardly a secret that they shared a _very_ intimate friendship, and Greg had long since reconciled himself to the depth of his feelings for his friend. He’d broached the subject several times, but on each occasion had been expertly re-directed before he could really push the matter.

“Is this why you won’t go near a committed relationship with me?” Greg asked, taking the bull by the horns. Mycroft visibly tensed and the shutters came down, but Greg pressed on. “We’ve been doing this for nearly three years, Mycroft. We’re comfortable together. I know you and Sherlock go in for all that caring not being an advantage stuff, but you’ve got to know how I feel about you.”

Mycroft frowned and rubbed the furrow between his eyes. “Caring is not an advantage, but nor is it always optional. Do you honestly think that I would have allowed this to continue otherwise?”

“Then why?” Greg demanded, suddenly frustrated. “Is it because you’re a vampire? You’ve trusted me alone in your house, with secrets, with your _brother_ , so why not with this? Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Really, Greg, think about it,” Mycroft said impatiently. “It’s hardly the kind of revelation one can work easily into conversation, and there are stringent rules about who can learn of our existence and why. Had it not been for Sherlock’s indiscretion, we wouldn’t be having this conversation now.”

“So it _is_ why you wouldn’t make this thing between us proper? If I’m barking up the wrong tree tell me, and I promise never to bring it up again, but I need to know.” Having managed to shove this issue to the back of his mind for so long, Greg was suddenly in a position where it would stay there no longer. “Please, Mycroft,” he implored, only vaguely aware that he was begging.

“You are aware that you’re asking a _vampire_ to enter into a committed relationship with you?” Mycroft asked blandly, eyes intense, and Greg felt a flutter of hope.

“No different to asking a man who routinely orders assassinations, plays with the fates of nations like they’re pieces on a chessboard, and stalks me with CCTV. If you think this is going to put me off after this long, you’re a bloody idiot,” Greg replied flippantly, hope pounding through his veins.

For the second time that night, Mycroft laughed, and Greg laughed with him, slightly giddy. Suddenly, the younger man stood. “I believe that it is time to show you my coffin.”

Greg damned near leapt out of his chair and stepped around the edge of the table until he was right in Mycroft’s personal space. “Is that a ‘yes’? Come on, I need to hear it,” he murmured, lips brushing Mycroft’s lightly stubbled jaw.

“If you’ll have me, then yes,” Mycroft said, lifting Greg’s chin with two fingers. “Yes.”

Their lips came together gently at first, but the kiss very quickly became something altogether more passionate. Quite before he knew what was happening, Mycroft had him pressed against the wall and a leg insinuated between Greg’s own. “This coffin of yours, then,” he breathed, mouthing at the long expanse of his lover’s neck, “I think you’d better take me to it.”

As they left the left the room, hands roaming, Greg felt his phone vibrate in his pocket but paid it no mind; getting Mycroft into bed was far more important than a text message would ever be.

It wasn’t until the next morning - after a night of frankly _fantastic_ sex - that Greg thought to check his phone, but when he did he the resultant smile was wide enough to make his cheeks hurt:

 **Sherlock Holmes:** You’re welcome.


End file.
